


Solicit Me

by Blissome



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Draco Malfoy Has No Chill, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Lavender is alive, Not Epilogue Compliant, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Pining, Post-War, Press and Tabloids, Quidditch Player Ginny Weasley, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:27:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25073866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blissome/pseuds/Blissome
Summary: Working as a Quidditch player years after the war, Ginny's not happy when she runs into Draco  requesting (demanding) a favor. But with time, could old enemies become something more?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 3
Kudos: 82





	Solicit Me

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, a few things: 1) I'm American and don't have a beta, so, sorry for any Americanisms you find, 2) I don't support J.K. Rowling's anti-trans positions, I just like the story of Harry Potter, and 3) I hope you enjoy! Happy reading.

In the first few years after the battle of Hogwarts, Ginny stops expecting good things to happen to her. Sure, the war is over. Sure, she's managed to scrape by and graduate with all of her OWLs. Sure, she's got her own apartment. Sure, she's signed as a chaser with a promising Quidditch team.

But Fred is still dead, and her family is still mourning. She knows that other families are mourning their losses too, but as a whole the wizarding world has put on a strange, new, cheerful face as society rebuilds. It's necessary--perhaps, she's not sure--but she doesn't feel like she belongs.

Even her romantic life has been… well, crushed. After the first flush of impossible happiness at finding themselves young and alive and together again, she and Harry had slowly reached the uncomfortable realization that they were incompatible together. 

Becoming the savior of the world for the second time left him richer and more famous than ever, but it also left him moody and often withdrawn. She'd tried to support him, but the war had left her with scars too. More often than not, their attempts to reach each other only ended in tense, heavy silences. 

They'd parted amicably, but the loss still ached. 

Better to stop expecting good things to happen. It wasn't even that she was depressed, she decided; it just felt easier this way. She still works hard in practice and celebrates wins with the team. She visits her family as often as she can bear (sometimes more), argues with her brothers, and quietly helps her mother cook when she starts getting that horrible look in eyes. And she'd even started a savings account.

So, she couldn't even say she was surprised when she stepped into the team recreation room and ran into no one other than Draco Malfoy. It was just another not-good thing in her life that was still happening.

He looks similarly unsurprised to see her, but that, at least, makes sense. This is the Holyhead Harpies' home stadium and she is a player for the Harpies. Anyone with a passing knowledge of Quidditch and some common sense could put two and two together.

"Malfoy," she says, unpleasantly aware that she's still sweaty and reddened from practice.

He lifts an eyebrow and looks her over, slowly. "Weasley." His voice is as snotty as she remembered, just--more relaxed now, she thinks. As much as it's possible for a snotty voice to sound relaxed.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" She may be an adult now, and presumably mature, but she can't resist at least a small dig. "I didn't know you were such a fan of mine."

Oddly, he just ignores it and continues looking down at her. Literally so--she'd never had the final growth spurt she'd hoped for as a teenager--and, she suspects, figuratively. 

"I'm here with a request from the board of directors," he says, finally.

"You work for them?"

He actually looks insulted. "I don't work for them, I work with them. I’m an investor."

Ginny sighs. Of course he's an investor.

"The board wanted me to ask you given our… shared history."

"History?"

"We went to Hogwarts together, if you haven't forgotten."

Ginny thinks that the other investors must be real dumbbells to think that Ginny and Draco's time at Hogwarts together in Gryffindor and Slytherin, respectively, was anywhere near positive enough to actually make their "history" a factor more likely to lead to her acceptance.

But, still--

"What's the request, then?" She sounds short, she knows, but her uniform is beginning to stick to her uncomfortably and she knows there's only a short window before everything begins to smell. That, and she's never truly enjoyed a conversation with Draco Malfoy and doesn’t know how this could be different.

"There's going to be a summer Quidditch camp for," he pauses, almost delicately, before staring down at her and narrowing his eyes, "girls from under-resourced families. We'd like you to help coach."

"Coach?" She wasn't going to touch the way he'd looked at her when he'd said under-resourced, the git.

"Yes, coach." He peers at her. "Did you develop hearing problems in the war?"

The annoyed look on her face is probably all the answer he needs. He rolls his eyes--rolls his eyes!--at her and keeps talking. "Three hours a day, twice a week, twelve weeks. Can you manage it?"

His tone is so patrician and so familiar now that she doesn't know whether she wants to laugh or cry. It makes her feel as if Professor Snape is about to ooze out from behind a pillar and stare at them threateningly, or as if she's about to turn the corner and run into Ron and Hermione, laughing together as they walk through the halls to Arithmancy or History of Magic.

"That seems… nice," she says instead, carefully.

His mouth briefly twists into a bitter shape she knows too well before smoothing back again. "Yes, it does _seem nice_ , doesn't it?" His emphasis makes her consider what she knows about Draco Malfoy, after the war. His father had been arrested for war crimes, his mother placed on house arrest. As a minor at the time of sentencing and a minor when he had fought as a Death Eater, Draco had been assigned several hundred hours of community service, to be completed over a two-year period. Seen as laughable by many, this assignment had done little to endear him to others. He regularly received desultory treatment in the press, although all she saw him for in the press these days was attending charitable fundraisers and making large donations that had become public.

"Sure," she responds, unable to think of anything better.

"Perfect," he says, and she blinks, confused. "I'll have my secretary send over the paperwork."

That's not what she had been agreeing to--but oh, to hell with it. It's not like she had a lot else going on.

"Great. I'll have my solicitor look it over tomorrow." She's being sarcastic--she doesn't have solicitors, and doesn't think she's ever met one in a professional capacity, but Malfoy just arches his eyebrows at her again and says, "I expect you will," before turning and beginning to walk away. 

Before she can even think of a response, he's out the door.

 _Bloody hell,_ she thinks. _Where am I going to find a solicitor by tomorrow?_

\---------------------------------------------------------------

The worst thing about the Quidditch summer camp for girls from under-resourced families is that it's the best thing that's happened to her recently. She doesn't expect to like it, or even to be very good at it. But she does like it, and she is good at it.

Every practice seems to go by faster than the one before. She likes planning them out, and she likes working with the girls. They're at the age that everyone tells her is difficult, the age when Ginny was just starting Hogwarts, so unsure of herself and so relieved to find a voice in a journal that spoke and listened to her like she mattered, a voice that didn't ask for anything--at least at the beginning.

Occasionally, when she glances at the mostly-empty stands, she sees a familiar pale face and a shock of hair so blonde it is almost white. She's surprised to see him there until she realizes he's probably just checking on his investment, or trying to get information he can mock her with later.

She ignores him at first, but as the summer progresses and her world seems to slowly infuse with more color, her temper flares. She waits for the next day she sees him watching, and then stomps over in his direction during the first break she gets. He's almost disappeared behind the stands by the time she catches up, her breath coming fast more from irritation than exertion.

"Malfoy," she calls out.

He turns and looks at her, his gaze cool. "Yes?"

"Is there some sort of problem you need to talk about with me?"

"Problem?"

"I can only assume that's why I keep seeing you around." 

There's a long moment where he's just looking at her, completely still, as if he's considering something important, and then a little smile twists briefly on his lips in a way that used to herald trouble. 

"Now that you mention it, Weasley, we do need to talk." 

"Fine--"

He cuts her off. "Not here," he says, sounding every bit like the posh git she expects him to be, even if she can't quite put a name to the sharp, bright look in his eyes. "I don't talk business in hallways."

"Then where? Have a castle with turrets and tapestries somewhere we need to chat in?"

"I'll pick you up after practice tomorrow." She can see his eyes drop to scan down her body, still in her comfortable athletic attire for coaching, and instantly feels her face heat in a blush. She's tensing, ready for an insult, but he just meets her eyes again and says, half-gentle and half-mocking, "Wear something casual. I hate to disappoint, but there's really no need to go to the castle yet."

Just like before, he's out the door before she can think of a decent response. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------

She'd expected coffee somewhere, or even a meeting in an empty conference room. Not what she's sure is a very expensive long-distance Floo to what looks like--

"…Cheshire?" she asks, incredulous, peering out the living room window of what she supposes rich people imagine is a quaint, traditional summer cottage in the countryside.

Malfoy looks smug. "Correct."

"You wanted to talk in a cottage in Cheshire?"

"Not in the cottage," he says, reaching up to push away some stray hair falling into his eyes. "Outside the cottage. I thought you might enjoy going for a walk."

Ginny briefly considers the probability that he's actually just looking for a chance to murder her somewhere quiet and secluded before deciding it's low enough to be worth the risk.

"Sure, Malfoy," she retorts, trying her best to sound irritated instead of confused. It's not precisely the location she would have chosen for a workplace conversation. "Let's go."

They make it out of the cottage and about five minutes down the path in silence, the only noise the sound of their feet scuffing on the path and the wind rustling gently through grass. Then Ginny, rarely comfortable with total silence, breaks, and bursts out with: "So what exactly is the problem?"

"If I recall, and I do, I never said there was a problem," he says, haughty. "I just said we need to talk."

Forget him murdering her. She feels like she's about to murder him.

"About what?"

"Your summer camp," he asks, and she almost trips. "It seems like you enjoy it. Do you?"

The look on her face must tell him something, because he adds, "I'm not testing you." He sounds regretful now, and is looking forward at the path in front of them now, not meeting her eyes.

So, she answers him. A little cautiously at first, but because she's Ginny Weasley and she honesty loves her work, she quickly throws her caution aside and speaks as honestly and proudly as she knows how. 

By the time they loop back and re-enter the cottage, they've moved on a general discussion of money in Quidditch, and Ginny is uncomfortable to realize that she's had an enjoyable time. It feels, oddly, like a betrayal of her time in Gryffindor and time spent fighting in the war. But she's not sure if it's fair. So when Draco carefully takes her by the elbow like a countryside squire and they head back into the Floo, she says nothing to him afterwards beyond a slightly awkward goodbye. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------

Afterwards, she and Draco start running into each other more frequently at the stadium. Sometimes, they even stop to talk, and on even rarer occasions, they go on more walks after she finishes at camp. 

He even seems to enjoy it when she argues with him. The first time one of their discussion became heated, she stops abruptly, worried. Harry had never been very comfortable with arguments, even theoretical ones. They made him snappish and withdrawn. It reminds him, she guesses, of the verbal abuse he'd endured as a child. But she's not sure--he's never actually told her anything.

But Draco doesn't seem alarmed by her open combativeness. If anything, he's oddly thrilled with it, and gives as good as he gets. That first time she'd tried to stop, worried, he'd just curled his lip and told her that he much preferred her "loud and, perhaps, open to correction" to "silent and misinformed." 

As time passes, she's quicker to relax around him, and the only thing that strikes her as strange about their conversations is how natural they feel. That, and the fact that she's beginning to resent how well-fitting and, frankly, flattering all of his clothing is. At least, she hopes resentment is the feeling. 

It doesn't help that her students have started noticing him now too. Or, to be more precise, they've started noticing him with her. The questions are personal and endless, and she barely escapes each preteen interrogation with her dignity intact. Several even begin imitating the way he swipes his hair back and then waggling their eyebrows suggestively whenever she looks at them, which she does her best to ignore. 

At times she's reminded how far apart their worlds were, and are. He tells friendly stories of classmates that she would barely say hello to in the street, talks of vacations to places she's never been the same way she talks about trips to Diagon Alley, and never, ever, mentions his family. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

On a Wednesday in August, Ginny goes out for drinks with old friends: Lavender, Padma, and Morwen. They all have different schedules now, and different lives, but whenever they actually meet up in person again, she's freshly reminded of why she became friends with them in the first place.

They're giggling and complaining about their families when she feels someone step by their table--too close--and her stomach tightens in a way that has her instantly shifting her right hand down her body as if to scratch her leg, but really to get closer to her wand. She can tell that Lavender has noticed too, her hand tightening on her glass. Padma and Morwen, further away, are still laughing. 

The man says something, low enough in the din of the bar that all she hears is Quidditch, and bitch. The next thing she knows, his hand is darting out to twist and grab at her hair. She twists out of the way, Lavender leaps out of her seat, and the next minute is a confusion of wands and fists and yelling. 

The incident, unfortunately, makes the gossip papers that morning. The press isn't really negative--to her, "BAR ATTACK! HOT HOGWARTS HERO FIGHTS BACK." is as supportive as the _Daily Prophet_ can ever get--and she doesn't feel she did anything wrong. The man had been a threat, and not an entirely unusual one. She's well aware that female Quidditch players often become the target of anonymous abuse.

So she's surprised when her team's managers call her into their office, and surprised again when she realizes that they actually want to lecture her for not having found a "peaceful solution," and remind her of the language in her signing contract that refers to appropriate behavior outside the pitch.

It doesn’t take long for her to completely lose her temper. And when she loses her temper, she argues--loudly. Which is how she soon finds herself standing in front of the conference room table, hands balled into fists at her sides, as she prepares to tell her managers exactly what she thinks of them.

That's when the Floo in the corner lights up and emits a soft pop. She blinks, and then there's Draco Malfoy stepping forward with an unfamiliar, dark-haired woman at his side. 

"Apologies for being late," he says, sounding not even vaguely apologetic. "I ran into Ginny's solicitor after I landed in the lobby, and decided the gentlemanly thing to do was to show her the way."

Ginny knows she doesn't have a solicitor, besides the random man she'd hired to review her contract for the summer coaching. But she also knows how to improvise when necessary, so she just nods at them both like royalty presiding over a joust and keeps her mouth shut, unable to trust her own voice yet.

The woman steps forward and offers her hand to the managers. "Amina, from Drenthe and Knight." 

"We didn't realize you had a solicitor," one manager says, staring at Ginny.

"And surely you don't need one," another manager adds.

The woman smiles, and if Ginny didn't think Amina was on her side, she'd be terrified. It is, she decides, one of the least friendly smiles she's seen in her entire life to date. "I'm sure she doesn't need a solicitor either," she says. "But I will be here just in case. Can you tell me what I've missed so far?"

The managers all look at each other, Draco looks silently at the managers with an expression that reminds her of Amina's smile, Ginny sits back down, and the tone of the meeting changes considerably.

In her apartment later that night, she scribbles a note of thanks at her dinner table and gives it to her owl. When she wakes up the next morning, she yelps and clutches at her sheets: her owl is already back and staring directly down at her from where it's clinging to her headboard, a new letter in its beak. She's not surprised to see it's from Draco, although she is surprised by how quickly he responded. 

_I do not require your thanks, Weasley._ She snorts, more amused than offended. _If you're going to pursue a career in the public eye, you'll need more than your wand or your fists to protect yourself. Ask me how I know._

\------------------------------------------------------------

At her next family dinner--scheduled quickly and unsubtly by her mother after Ginny makes the papers-- she recounts what happened. She thinks she's doing a pretty good job of making it sound like it's just a good story, but when she reaches the part about Draco coming in with the lawyer, all hell breaks loose.

"The little weasel?" Ron asks, his mouth still full of food.

"Of all people--the Malfoy boy?" her father says, dropping his silverware on the table.

"I remember that snooty little blond kid," mutters Charlie, staring hard at Ginny.

"Hmm!" Percy grunts over his soup bowl.

"Shocking," George adds cheerfully a beat after everyone else finally stops talking. "A real character betrayal, that is." His comment only sets everyone off again. He looks at her and grins.

Groaning, she puts her head down on the table and waits for it all to end.

\----------------------------------------------------------

Later that night, while she and Ron are helping clean up, her mother begins nodding to herself as she waves her wand over the stove and says, "Well, I should at least invite him to dinner sometime."

Ron looks at Ginny, confused. "Who?"

"No," Ginny says. "That's really--no, mom."

"It's the polite thing to do, and we're a polite family." Her mother flicks her wand, and the sponges cleaning the dishes begin to rotate even faster. "Always have been, always will be." 

Ginny wants to scream. The thought of having Draco over for dinner is… god. She may have struggled with Divination, but she doesn't need it to envision exactly the kind of disaster the dinner would be.

Ron looks between them both again. "Who?"

"Draco Malfoy," Ginny and her mother both yell at him, and then turn back to glare at each other.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

That same evening, she's readying for a night's stay in her old childhood bedroom when she hears a knock at the door and opens it to see Percy, standing hesitantly at the threshold.

He speaks before she can. "Do you think people can really make up for things? Just like that?"

"I…" she pauses. "He certainly can't just wave away the harm he did." 

"But you're acting like he can," he shoots back. "It doesn't even sound like you hate him anymore." 

Ginny sighs and pushes her hair back. "It's not that. Not that he can wave it away. I still remember all of it." Sometimes too well, she thinks. "It's that I think he's accounting for his actions and moving forward."

She waits for Percy to argue back, but he never does. He just looks at her for a long moment, his face more tired than she's seen it in a long time, sighs, and leaves, shutting the door quietly behind him. 

What she doesn't tell him is that her recent work with children is also making her understand just how young they all were, back in their beginnings at Hogwarts. Where she used to feel angry at young Ginny, for falling for Tom's journal and being unable to free herself from the situation, she now feels anger only at Tom and Lucius for manipulating a child. Towards herself, there is only a soft, sad, grieving feeling.

And she wonders if Draco, too, was also a child manipulated and twisted by the people he trusted. As he aged, in their final years at school, he'd clearly begun to doubt more, to worry more, even as he participated in his family's cause. She couldn't forget his behavior then, or condone it, but--

She sighs again, and returns to mulling Percy's question. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

Her mother eventually stops bothering her about the dinner, and Ginny is too relieved to question it. Besides, she has other problems now. She's started running into random Slytherins out and about. That in itself isn't that unusual--the wizarding world in London can feel quite small--but the frequency is. And most everyone she runs into is from Draco's year, or close to it.

First, there's Blaise, lounging inside the Leaky Cauldron one evening with a newspaper and winking at her when she meets his gaze. Next, there's Theodore gently bumping into her in the street, his "Oh, hullo, sorry," decidedly too casual. Then, there's Harper coming inside Madame Malkin's during Ginny's fitting for formal robes that are finally not second-hand, and telling her sweetly that she prefers the green to the pink.

She doesn't get the sense that they mean her any harm. If anything, she feels like the unwitting target of an ongoing investigation, or an animal at the zoo being observed alone before being placed with others. 

The worst is when she and Harry meet for dinner at a local, Muggle-run Indian restaurant. In itself, this is not unusual: they do still meet a few times a year. What is unusual is that partway through, Daphne and Pansy Parkinson stroll inside and take seats at a table across the room. 

Harry nearly chokes on his chana masala, but neither Daphne nor Pansy act like they've seen them. Whenever Ginny peeks over at them, they appear to be doing what most people do in a restaurant: sitting and talking. That doesn't stop her from feeling like she has eyes on her the entire meal, or stop Harry from spending the rest of the dinner speculating darkly about their arrival.

\------------------------------------------------------------

As the summer draws to a close, her coaching camp ends and her regular matches pick up. The matches feel more fun now than they did last year; more like matches used to feel on a good day at Hogwarts.

She's leaving the locker room after a Tuesday afternoon game when she sees Draco emerge from a room down the hallway. He's dressed formally, which is not unusual, and she's struck by the urge to run her fingers down the fabric of his jacket. Instead, she shouts, "Hey!" and jogs after him.

He looks at her--and is it her imagination that his eyes flick to her chest for a moment?--and smiles, a small, pleased smile she's begun to associate with their time together.

"Is there some sort of problem you need to talk about with me?" he drawls, arching an eyebrow. 

She laughs, happy to see him and somehow thrilled to be made fun of so gently. She can only blame her post-game adrenaline and a complete abandonment of common sense for what she does next, which is to move closer to him and gently press her hands against his chest before darting up to kiss him. 

When she draws back, she realizes he's gone tense underneath her fingertips, and looks into his face to see that it's white with some intense emotion, his eyes glittering. "Sorry," she breathes, feeling hideously stupid. She uncurls her hands from where they're clutching his lapels, and begins to step away.

"I don't need your apologies, Ginevra," and she has a moment to think that she's never heard someone say her name like that before he grabs her by the uniform and pulls her back for another kiss.

\------------------------------------------------------------

They barely make it back to her place before he slams her back against the wall and kisses her again, occasionally catching her lower lip between his teeth in a way that leaves her trembling. She only gets a chance to catch her breath when he moves from her mouth to lay kisses down the arch of her neck.

"My flat's a bit of a mess," she says, her voice thin as she stares down at him.

"You're mad if you think I'm looking at your flat right now," he murmurs, his hands sliding up underneath her shirt and then over her sports bra to caress her nipples with such exaggerated care she could just die.

She can only moan in response, and he swears under his breath before muttering a spell that leaves her entirely braless and even more exposed to his touch. 

In return, Ginny pushes off his jacket and begins unbuttoning his shirt as fast as she knows how.

"Bedroom?" he asks, using one hand to push her shirt up entirely. He must like what he sees, because he groans and moves down further to catch one of her nipples gently between his teeth, the other hand moving to ass to grind her more firmly against him.

"Um," she says, hands twisting in his hair. "What?"

He tongues her breast again and smiles, almost viciously. "I said--bedroom?"

"Do we really need to?" she gasps, dipping a hand past his belt. "There's a wall right here."

He chuckles, then, his voice dark and low, and the sound goes straight through her. "If the lady insists."

\------------------------------------------------------------

After a time, they do make it to her bedroom. 

In the aftermath, she can only lie against his pale chest, panting. For a moment, she feels a sense of terrifying vulnerability--this is _Draco Malfoy_ in her _bed_ \--but as she tenses, he only wraps his arms tighter around her, tucking her into the crook of his shoulder.

"The press will be vicious," he murmurs, so quietly she can barely hear. His finger begins lightly tracing and re-tracing her ear, lulling her further into a contented calm. 

By now, she's realized that their semi-regular walks always occur in various stretches of English countryside not just because it's beautiful, but also because it's private. She doesn’t begrudge him that, given the weight of his reputation. She knows it's likely much less to do with any shame of being seen with her, and more to do with fear of the press and what they may say about her. 

"I hardly think the press need to know we slept together," she laughs, trying to reassure him.

Instead, he stiffens, and the finger sliding down the shell of her ear pauses. 

"Ah," he says, his voice as distant as she's ever heard, "Clearly. I was only kidding. They're certainly not indebted to hear about your casual relationships, or any of mine."

 _I hadn't said this is casual,_ she wants to say, but doesn't. If it's casual for him, then--that's it.

He holds her for longer after that, but his silence has a different quality.

\------------------------------------------------------------

She doesn't see him the next week at the stadium. Or the week after that. Or, for that matter, the week after that. The knowledge that something has gone wrong solidifies in her chest, and for the first time she remembers, she can barely focus on her work or her friendships.

The Slytherin she does see, however, is Blaise. One second, she's alone in the market aisle shopping for her groceries, and the next, she's standing next to Blaise, who is carrying neither bags or baskets. 

"How unexpected to run into you here," he says, flatly, and reaches out to grab an apple.

"Is it unexpected?" she asks, because--really. 

He ignores her. "I've heard you've been spending some time with Draco."

"Sure, I see him at the stadium," she hedges, unsure of how much he knows.

"Mmm," he replies, nodding. "Vague. Very good. Keep it that way if anyone else asks."

"You really think I would just," she pauses, grasping for words, "talk around about him?"

"I don't know," he says, still looking more relaxed than she feels, even if he has been inspecting the same apple the entire conversation. "I don’t think I know you very well. For one," and now he's looking right at her, his eyes dark, "I didn't think a witch with your upstanding history would so casually--ah, how should I say this?--spend time with a wizard with a history like his."

This is, Ginny decides, the height of hypocrisy. "He wanted to be casual," she hisses.

He raises his eyebrows at her, and the movement is so smooth, so like Draco, that she briefly imagines all of the Slytherins practicing together in their common room after they finish their classes. "You know," he says, shaking his head, "I knew Gryffindors were thick-headed, but I didn't know they were quite this thick."

She considers their walks, and the way Draco looked at her, and the way he touched her, and the way he'd withdrawn when she'd teased him for his thoughts on the press reaction, and thinks-- _oh._

Whatever he sees in her face must tell him something, because he just shakes his head and repeats, "Gryffindors," and adds, "Total lack of emotional intelligence," before walking off with the apple.

\------------------------------------------------------------

She's still deciding what to say to Draco when she runs into him in the worst possible place: in public. In Diagon Alley, he's instantly recognizable even from a distance, his clothes dark and his hair so light. 

She stops and just observes him for a second, her chest tight. 

"Trying to get a good shot too, eh?" the man next to her asks, his bag jostling her shoulder.

"Sorry?"

"I said, are you trying to get a good shot too?" He nods at Draco. "Gotta hate him, but he sells pages."

"He's just shopping," she says, stiffly. "There's no story."

He laughs. "New to the business, are you? They write themselves now. For this one, huh. Maybe: Deatheater Draco Goes Shopping. Or, I know: Deatheater Draco: Still Too Rich?"

"Those aren't very good," she says honestly, before adding, "You should be ashamed of yourself."

"What, you a groupie?"

She pales with anger. "No, I just think there's a difference between hunting for a real story and just making one up because you know it'll incite your readership and make you some money."

"Uh-huh." He looks her over again. "Say, you look familiar too."

"So I've been told," she says primly, and walks away. When she reaches the end of the street, she places a small hex on the man's camera after checking that she's unobserved, silently thanking the dangers of growing up with six brothers under the eye of a watchful, involved mother for her ability to do so without notice.

By the time she finishes and looks around to find Draco again, he's gone. 

\------------------------------------------------------------

On her next day at work, a message is waiting for her requesting her presence in Meeting Room B.

She feels a momentary pang of guilt for the hex, but it passes quickly. She doubted it caused the photographer more than a temporary inconvenience, and she doesn't see how her managers could have found out about it anyway. So it's with some confusion that she pushes open the door to the room.

Inside, there is only one person: Draco, lounging in a chair, one leg crossed and a newspaper in his hand.

As soon as he sees her enter, his paper flicks down to the table, and he sneers. 

Fighting the desire to roll her eyes back, she walks forward until she can lean against the table near him. His eyes track her movement across the room, and she can't help but feel a momentary pulse as she remembers what he did to her the last time they were alone together.

There's a tense moment of silence as she settles, and then--

"You seem to be suffering under the delusion that I need to be defended," he says, slowly, his eyes narrowed.

"I guess you don't." Draco, she knows, considers his targeting by the press to be a relatively small price to pay for earlier mistakes. "But," she adds, "I don't like people trying to hurt you."

If anything, this explanation seems to make him angrier. "You put yourself at risk, needlessly," he hisses. "If you'd been arguing with anyone smarter, they would have recognized you and gotten a bigger story."

"I can afford it," she replies, confused. "I have a better reputation." This, she knows, is another currency.

His mouth works almost soundlessly, and he seems briefly speechless with anger.

"So you do," he finally says, his voice shaking. "But from one person in the public eye to another, it'd be best if you didn't just waste it on your--" and now he's sneering again, "casual dalliances."

"About that," she says, feeling her face beginning to heat in a blush. "I think there's a been a misunderstanding, really. I only said what I did because it did seem like we had time to wait a while," and she should stop talking but can't, "…instead of sending out an immediate post-coital press release, or whatever. And then you said they didn't need to know about our casual relationships, so I figured you wanted one, obviously."

"Casual," he repeats, outraged. "You thought I was… casual?"

She shifts her weight against the desk. "Yes?"

"You know I had lunch with your mother, don't you?" he says, and when Ginny instantly stiffens with horror, she thinks she sees his mouth twitch.

"You--what now? With my mother?" 

"She asked me. Sent an owl after that little business with your managers."

"I knew she wanted to," she explains, embarrassed. "I just didn't know she had. But it's fine, I suppose, because now," and this is it, this is her chance to try again, so she looks him directly in the eyes and says, "now you've already properly met her."

There's another long silence, the only sound in the room the ticking of the clock against the wall. The expression on his face reminds her of how he'd looked right after she'd first kissed him, back in the hall.

She moves as if to go closer to him, then stops. He notices, of course, and she can see his hands curl slightly where they're resting on the armchair.

"Come here, Ginevra," he murmurs, before adding, softer, "If you would."

She would. In fact, she almost throws herself into his lap, curling her arms around his shoulders and wasting no time before pressing her mouth down against his. For his part, he pulls her closer with one arm around her waist and uses the other to cup the back of her head, deepening the kiss. 

"So, I don't want to be casual," she gasps when they stop for air. "And neither do you."

"Correct," Draco tells her, the hand on her waist dropping down to caress her ass. In turn, she leans down to bite gently down on his neck where it peeks from underneath his collar, and licks her lips when she feels him jerk against her. "And sometime in the future," he adds, his voice rough, "we should consider legally formalizing the arrangement."

"Yes," she says, breathless. "But for now, we could draft a press release," and she can barely think for the way he's raking his nails slowly up her thigh, "just so we're prepared when this, oh," and now he's sliding a hand up and under her skirt, and it's so hard to focus on anything but his touch, "becomes public."

"Perfect," he drawls, and her eyes flutter shut as his knuckles begin to draw slow and unbearably light circles against her knickers. "I'll have my secretary send over the paperwork."

"Great," she replies, and then moans, his thumb rubbing harder exactly where she wants it. "I'll have my solicitor look it over."

"I expect you will." He's smiling down at her as he touches her, his eyes dark with desire, and she thinks--

_Maybe good things will still happen to me after all._


End file.
